is what you wear, not who you are,

but the surface is what is seen

and feels real, of course it is real

when the audience applaud

at that latest skin, mask being worn

even though you gleefully see

what is on the inside,

a decaying substance that longs to shine,

shine obtained

says the crowd, wooing for your attention

for you shit gold

in toilet buckets, while you walk into the swanky mansion

you congratulate yourself that

this is what everyone wants, feels real, is real because

people do want that.

but is that all? now the rats nibble at the ropes,

at the chains tied to a soul wrapped

in glitter, the warmth of the world

melts not the ice within, what cold ice!

and how can it not be,

when it has been nurtured for decades

on convincing lies?

a convenient story, more pleasurable than

a nail being struck on a cross

when the dead do not talk back,

align with the saints, of fallen heroes

because the spin become ever more enchanting.

the nibbles become like bites, biting off

more than you can chew,

till the teeth breaks when it finds bone

within meat,

like biting on a dead savior

finding blood.

it sips into the heart, the redness,

but the mask is intact, the pleasure is real

when perception and reality

have intertwined, merged to become one:

not a union of souls, god forbid

thud, thud,

one final act before the actor leaves the stage

do you believe? do you repent? do you drink from this cup?

aye, aye,

you say, then you too will be saved

said the priest who was also fighting his own

inner battles, when perception and reality

too draped over him, a cloak he wore

with the audience waiting for the next act

and it felt good.